Theodore Stickles: Prisoner Of Lust

She stumbled along behind him, unable to match her step with his. Smart-ass turned, saw the glazed look on her face, and wasted no more time. Hastily, he closed his topcoat around her, grabbed her like some hairy brute of a caveman, and galloped off toward the down escalator with Paula over his shoulder.

This isn't really happening, she tried to tell herself but she knew it was. No dream could scratch like this topcoat scrubbing her bare belly with each bounce while he galloped down the escalator, across the marbled lobby, and down the flight of cruddy stairs that bypassed an elevator to the parking garage.

He's going to get me in a dark corner and rape me, she knew. The son-of-a-bitch had been trying half heartedly to get into her pants for as long as she'd known him. But never quite hard enough. Until now he'd been happy enough to get his name in the papers with a succession of young hard bodies and, apparently, smart enough not to let any of these conniving young cunts hitch her wagon to his rapidly rising star. But now, having finally seen a full-sized spread of her irresistible charms, he was going to make up for lost time, going to get her down in some dark corner of the parking garage and fuck her silly, fuck her until her brains turned to peanut butter and her cunt to mincemeat. He was going to-

Instead of dumping her in a corner and threading his honker into her, Smart-ass, still draping her coat-wrapped body over his shoulder, fumbled in his pocket and then he was opening the door of a Mark IV. He put her in the front seat, handling her like a length of rolled-up carpet. Moments later they were driving out of the garage up onto the street and Paula knew despairingly that it wasn't true. He wasn't going to rape her. Smart-ass really did have a sharp mind. While all those other dipshits had leered and boggled he had rushed forward and struggled to spare her more humiliation. Now he was taking her home.

It didn't occur to her to ask how he happened to know the way. He'd never been there. In the twelve years since they'd finished law school and been admitted to the bar he'd seen her every day or two in the courtrooms, in chambers, in the restaurants frequented by City Hall people. They'd been friendly in a brittle sort of way and he'd never once visited her home. Now, after a silent ride he was pulling up before her little house.

He pulled into the driveway and touched a door opening gadget. Paula's eyes widened as her garage door flew open. "Any son-of-a-bitch who peddles these things for security merits whatever the law can ignore in the way of cruel and unusual punishment," Smart-ass growled as he drove his Mark IV cautiously into the space for her Datsun.

Paula opened the door and bolted. "Don't I even get a cup of coffee?" he asked plaintively as she shot into the kitchen.

Both of her phones were ringing. She ignored them and raced into her bedroom, shedding the topcoat as she rummaged through the closet and found a quilted robe. Then she realized that, no matter how much Smart-ass annoyed her, he really had been decent about it all. Belting her robe, she returned to the kitchen, then remembered his coat. She went back to the bedroom and got it. When she got back to the kitchen he had already rummaged through her cupboards and was plugging in a percolator.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Paula looked at him in astonishment.

"I know how you feel about the whole shtick," he explained. "Next time the bar association wants to give Hizzonner a few strokes they can hire a bunny to pop up out of a cake."

The blue phone and the red phone both started ringing again.

"Ignore them," he growled. "You're going to have every freak in TV range propositioning you for the next three weeks. And it may even get on the networks unless that kid in my office has sense enough to make a few calls and remind them about invasion of privacy."

"In a public place?" Paula asked witheringly.

"Nothing wrong with bluffing is there?" Smart-ass grinned. The percolator started muttering and Paula turned to the red phone.

"Don't!"

"I've got to. That's the hot line for my parolees." She picked up the phone and answered.

"Miss di Stephano?"

"Yes."

"This's Harry Riggs." When she hesitated the voice added, "You know-9173612. Uh look, Miss di Stephano, I've got a job. What I mean is a real job with a future but it's, uh, it's out of town."

"How far out of town?"

"Well, uh, it's out of state actually."

"Harry, you know I can't make new rules. I have to obey the law just like you do."

"But Miss di Stephano, it's a real opportunity. My boss'll go bond for me and he's got all kinds of papers and references and-can't I just bring him around and see you?"

Paula sighed. "Give me an hour," she said. "My office."

"Uh, couldn't I come to your house? I'm right in the neighborhood."

"I suppose so," she said defeatedly. No matter what that burning-eyed breaker and enterer cooked up she knew she couldn't give him permission to leave the state.

Smart-ass was looking quizzically at her. "Business as usual?" he asked.

Paula nodded and accepted the coffee he was pouring her in her own kitchen.

"I was going to suggest you get out of town and lie low for a day or two until it's forgotten."

The other phone was still ringing. Smart-ass picked it up, listened for a moment, and put it down without hanging up. "First freak," he said. "You'll have to get an unlisted number for that one."

"Who was it?"

"Sounded like that Daily News sharpie trying to pretend he was from the city attorney's office asking if you were going to sue."

Paula sighed and wondered if she really ought to go on vacation. But she'd just been on one. Sick leave? But she might turn out to be really sick someday.

She studied Smart-ass from the corner of her eyes. He really was a handsome dude-early forties, tall enough to make Paula feel little alongside him. He'd kept in shape, thanks to golf and sailing and handball and Christ knew what else. His hair was just starting to gray. She caught herself wondering what he would look like naked-as naked as she had been in front of all those chauvinist pigs. How big a cock did he have? And suddenly her belly was roiling again, all those little rubber bands inside her twisting up and getting ready for her little internal airplane to go soaring in another wildly looping solo flight.

Suddenly she knew that Smart-ass was studying her too. He finished his coffee, stood abruptly, and grabbed his coat. "Sorry," he repeated. "And if you ever change your mind, please put me at the top of the list."

"List of what?" Paula asked absently. That breaker and enterer would be there soon.

"The list of them as would like to handle the merchandise," Smart-ass said with a gallant bow. "If ever you feel the need of a male chauvinist pig, please count on me." Before Paula could reply he had exited into the garage. She heard the garage door open, heard his Mark IV back out, heard the door close again and then she was alone with her thoughts, alone with the realization that good-hearted, friendly old Smart-ass wasn't quite as smart as she had thought. Or possibly, she reflected, just not that interested.

The only thing Paula knew for sure was that if Smart-ass had really wanted to punch her ticket all he'd've had to do was pick her up again, spread her out on her bed, and mount her. She felt her belly give a little flipflop. Jesus! What if he ever found out how near a miss? What if he ever learned how she burned for a man, for a cock-his cock-any cock. If only she could somehow manage a discreet little affair…

Shit! If she worked at it possibly she could. Fat chance now though. For the next few months every reporter would be just waiting and hoping for a follow up story on Lady Godiva of City Hall. Shit!